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It is with exhausted stuttering steps that Cutter stumbles his way back into his room. Which is far too nice a word to describe the hole Pryce has claimed for the two of them.
It's just a couple feet of space filled with pipes and wires, two sleeping bags for the two of them lying against opposite walls
But, it's one of the few spaces that the doctor could decouple from Hera's perceptive sensors without the ai noticing, which Miranda, of course, valued over getting an actual room. This is fine.
It's strange to spend so much time in Pryce's company, even if they do not interact for most of it. Cutter far prefers having his own space, this arrangement makes him twitchy, and it's more difficult to think when in company.
Unsurprisingly Minkowski hasn't done anything to stop them staying on 'her' station while Delusion has taken hold of the Sol. But, despite that, being here makes him even more on edge, he feels exposed. There is a very real chance that one of these days one of the many people who dislike him on this ship will creep up to him in his sleep and end it.
His bets are currently on Isabel.
Pryce glares at him from where she is sitting on her sleeping bag, putting down her book with a frown. The motion is slightly jerky still, her arm not yet fully healed.
Her light hair is still a mess, even after she's reluctantly let him help get rid of the blood caught in the strands. Her arm is completely wrapped in bandages, taken without permission from Dimitri's lab. They have already started to show red, she's forgotten to replace them on her own.
Cutter still stands halfway through the door, exhausted, legs trembling.
It's not like he looks much better. Bare, bruised. Holding his shattered hand close to his chest.
At least she can't see his back, it'd be a shame to worry her with Delusion's handiwork.
Cutter tries to smile, "Well, I'm back Miranda. How are you feeling today? Any better?" He questions, his voice does not crack. The words feel foreign in his mouth.
His throat is dry.
She doesn't bother to address his question, "You've gotten injured." She states instead.
"Yeah." He coughs, "That's what the big smoke demon does." He suppresses a cough.
The doctor continues to stare.
Their stalemate ends as his world starts swaying a little bit and his legs buckle underneath him.
All the exhaustion and fear he's felt in the past few hours wear down a little much on his pride, and this doesn't make any of it better.
His cheeks burn with embarrassment. His back burns with drying blood and a buzzing pain.
The floor is hard, that hurts too.
Pryce opens her mouth, then closes it again, looking down on him, a little uncertain for once.
She awkwardly closes in on him, after a moment of consideration, circling around to look at all the damage, she lets out a disapproving hum.
Her ice cold fingers make contact with his back. He flinches, very subtly, the memories of smoke and agony still too clear on his mind.
The air feels a little too heavy around him, it gets difficult to breathe just for a second, "How about– cough– you don't touch. It hurts." He gasps.
She sighs, almost disappointed, "If you'll let me help with that, then maybe you won't bleed out and fall over like a dead dog." It's a rather strange turn of phrase, and Cutter just wants to point that out, alongside the blatant hypocrisy, when he falls into another damned coughing fit, his body trembling.
Pryce sighs again, shaking her head, "I guess we're doing this then?"
Cutter can't tell, his vision is blurring and his head is throbbing.
Even if sharing a space like this isn't ideal, it feels nice to have someone to look you up and down in a moment like this.
Somehow even Miranda's presence can be comforting while she looks him over and stitches him back together, one bandage at a time. She's not gentle by a long stretch, but, she's more careful than he's ever seen her be.
Her fingers are still freezing cold on his bare skin and he is shivering.
There is nothing to do now, while she works, so he just stares blankly at the wall, willing his thoughts to start working properly again.
Unlike usual she eventually talks while working, breaking the silence between them, "So, have you figured out what to do next yet. I am getting bored." Despite the words she is saying there is a certain hesitance to them, like she expects the words themselves to spring to life and stab her to death.
He just shrugs, unwilling to admit the creeping feeling of powerlessness that has been lingering in him, haunting, for days. There was no sensible, safe, way to refuse Delusion's invitation, and now everything is far too difficult to think about. Like wading through syrup, not that he's ever tried.
Miranda doesn't say anything else either, her fingers continuing their mundane work in the relative quiet, this is probably a good thing.